For a long time after young Robert had gone, his father sat in his chamber and stared at the slowly dancing flame of the candle.
50
King Philip of France did not consider himself a decisive man. He never expressed this opinion publicly, of course; kings are expected to demonstrate some deference to God –claiming, as they do, that their right to rule flows from Him and thus they are closer to the Almighty than are other mortals –but they can never compare themselves to other men, much less do so unfavorably.
But Philip knew his history and was aware that kings are judged — when they are dead, and appraisal is allowed –- by their victories. Conflicts that remain unresolved throughout their reigns seem testaments to the limits of their abilities, and Philip had know nothing but struggle.
At the age of seventeen, he came to a throne that had been held by kings who, in retrospect, seemed to have been all powerful. They ruled the Holy Roman Empire, that political manifestation of the Catholic dream that all Christendom should be united under one temporal head, elected by the pope and his cardinals. But Philip seemed born into squabbling. His throne was attacked from within and from without. Longshanks, across the channel, claimed that he should rule both England and France, and Philip was forced to spend almost all of his time forging alliance among his own nobles to resist Longshanks’s diplomacy and armies. And in moments when Philip found breathing room from that problem, his energies were drawn to the perils of the Holy Catholic Church itself; the Vatican had fallen into so much of corruption and contention that Philip would eventually be forced, in the year 1309, to move the papacy to Avignon, and the world would have not one infallible pontiff but two, each of whom consigned the other to hell.
The demands of the throne were complicated and Philip managed the best he could. Faced with hundreds of difficult decisions that, once made, only seemed to result in the need to make other decisions, he began to consider himself indecisive, if he could truly decide something, he thought then he wouldn’t be forced to keep deciding again and again. If he could somehow make things simpler, then he might achieve a name like Charles I, who had become known as Charlemagne — Charles the Great — or Louis IX, who had been canonized as Saint Louis.
Philip IV was known as Philip the Fair.
It was midafternoon on a fine Parisian day when this handsome, dark-haired king of France was hoping he could conclude his business son enough to stroll among his gardens while the sun was still up, that Deroux, one of his many advisors, entered the palace audience chamber wearing a worried look. This was not unusual; all his advisors were forever looking troubled. The king only noted the weighty expression because he had been working since dawn and had thought the stream of troublesome matters being brought before him had finally dried up for the day. This last advisor waited his turn as Philip waded through the deliberations at his usual steady pace; but when at last the king turned to him and said, “Yes, Deroux,” The man seemed unprepared to respond.
“Sire…,” he said at last, “we have a… a….”
“A problem Deroux?”
“A visitor, sire. A man who says he is William Wallace.”
William Wallace. King Philip knew in an instant why Deroux had been hesitating. That name had cause head scratching and uncertainty in the French court since the first time it was spoken, just after the Battle of Stirling, where an English army more powerful than the ones that had been bedeviling France had been driven from Scotland in a single day. An unknown commoner? A military genius? A legendary figure who had taken an army away from the nobles who owned it and then led it to victory? Some of Philip’s advisors doubted this Wallace actually existed.
Then they had received a letter from him. It was written in clear, forceful French strictly correct if a bit academic. The letter petitioned the French king and his court to enter pacts of defense and trade. It made no mention of their common enemy but pointed out in a direct fashion the benefits to both countries of such an alliance. King Philip had often thought how advantageous it would be to utilize the military and economic potential of Longshanks’s northern neighbors; it was obvious to him that Longshanks’s efforts to crush the Scots were meant to prevent just such a possibility.
But nothing was ever simple. Philip’s advisors had told their king that it might not be prudent to respond to Wallace’s letter favorably; perhaps it was dangerous to respond at all. The Scottish nobles were distrustful and divided. Did this Wallace possess the authority to create alliances? If so, how long would his ability last?
The French stalled. The royal court studied and debated. By that time Wallace had been defeated at Falkirk, and Philip’s advisors felt vindicated in their caution. Now here he was, in France, presenting himself, requesting an audience with the king himself.
“He just arrives, asking for an audience?” Philip asked Deroux. It was considered a breach of protocol for anyone, no matter how prominent, to request a royal audience simply by arriving; one was expected to make arrangements through carefully worked out channels.
“Yes sire.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Since this morning.” Philip then understood the delay. Deroux didn’t want to grant the audience and didn’t want to deny it either. It was clear he even doubted for a time whether the visitor was in fact the legendary Scotsman. The king saw other advisors, men he had already dismissed for the day, filtering back into the room; Deroux must have solicited their advice and they wanted to see the outcome.
“Send him in,” Philip ordered.
Deroux waved to the guard at the door, and he admitted William Wallace. King Philip saw immediately the reason for Deroux’s reluctance and the evidence of how wrong he had been to doubt this man was who he claimed to be. The warrior before them was ragged and scarred. His clothes were plain. If not for his stature, the obvious power in his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, and the handsomeness of his face, scarred though it was, he would have passed for a simple commoner. But she could not conceal the force within him; it was in his posture, his stride; he was a man who would yield to nothing. His facial expression was frightening in that it looked dead. But his eyes were not. They burned. The man nodded to the king — no bow, just a simple tilt of his head.
“Sir William,” the king acknowledged.
“Thank you for receiving me” Wallace said in decent though heavily accented French.
He stood there in a long awkward silence, the king and two dozen of his richly attired gentlemen of the court all gazing at the warrior with the wild hair and the wilder eyes. And then the king surprised everyone, “ It looks like a fine evening,” he said, glancing out toward his gardens. “Come and walk with me.”
They moved along the raked gravel of the garden, surrounded by high manicured hedges. The flower beds were barren, spaded up and lying fallow for the plantings, and yet it was a calming place, all quiet and serene. Wallace took long slow steps, his gaze lowered, this thoughts seemingly distant. The king studied him as they walked. “You seek asylum,” Philip supposed.
“No,” Wallace said. “I did not come to hide. I came to fight.
Several of the royal advisors, among them Deroux, were trailing along behind. They pretended to be enjoying the stroll but were straining to catch every word, and now they looked all around at each other.
“To fight for me?” King Philip asked.
“If I say that, you’ll know I lie. I respect you as an enemy of my enemy, but I am not here to become your subject.”